


napalm skies

by tkillamockingbird (Theboys)



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - War, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-25 22:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15649773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/tkillamockingbird
Summary: If Damen understands anything, it's the blood of battle.





	1. Chapter 1

“How is it that you never sweat?” Nik’s hair sticks to the base of his collarbone, and he sweeps one hand underneath it to increase air flow.

Damen leans more heavily against the bartop and nods discreetly in the bartender’s direction.

“I sweat on my back,” Damen says with a laugh, “and that’s why I always wear black when we go out.”

Nik delivers him a look filled with too much venom for the predicament at hand, and Damen raises one brow in amusement.

“You’re the one that wanted to come here,” Damen adds, and he turns to fully face forward. The bartender is of middling height, with hair the color of honey and wine. She smiles at him in a way that invites a forwardness she wouldn’t otherwise allow, and Damen is sorely tempted. 

Nik’s been on injured leave for a year now, long enough for his hair to grow out and his knee to stop clicking when he takes a turn too sharply.

The bullet had grazed Damen’s lower left oblique, a gouge that had healed nicely but was still visible even after a shoddy stitch job in a tent at the very edge of the Durand Line.

He rubs a hand over his side absently, and follows Nik’s movements with the latent intensity of someone who has done so often.

Nik doesn’t bother straying from his side, as silently uncomfortable with the practice as Damen himself, and the bartender drags one manicured nail across his wrist as she hands him the receipt.

“Two Kentucky peach,” she says, and she nods toward him as he scribbles a two-dollar tip in the designated line.

“One for you, and one for…?” She prods, and Damen takes a glass in each hand.

“I think that couple down there wants you,” Damen says, not unkindly, and her eyes flick from his torso and up to his chest.

He can feel the heat rising to his face and Nik carefully lays a hand down against the center of his back. Damen tenses up without thought, and Nik increases the pressure before releasing and reaching past Damen to grab his own drink.

“Let’s take a seat somewhere. He said he’ll be here in ten,” Nik adds, and Damen turns to follow instead of attempting to speak over the din of voices.

Nik’s hand tugs awkwardly at split ends, and Damen downs half of the sour beer in one long pull.

Nik shoulders his way through the crowd, while Damen depends unfairly upon his height to do what it has always done, that is, announce his presence through the abnormality of it.

They make it to a set of sienna couches, made of soft down that is a remarkable pleasure to sink into.

Something EDM or other is playing, a strange divergence from the Top 100 that has previously been on loop, and Nik’s glass is almost empty.

“You want another?” Damen says, motioning more at Nik’s drink than speaking aloud, and Nik glances down as if he’s just noticed the lack of fluid.

Damen doesn’t mind turning back the way they came; he’d rather be working through the mass of bodies than surrounded by them, and Nik understands.

Damen finishes his own and catches both in one hand, stacking them neatly.

He’s halfway through retracing his steps when he registers that a body is too close for comfort. He barely has time to contemplate before a hand wraps around his right bicep. 

It’s more an attempt to enclose it than a resounding success, and Damen’s muscles coil with tension at first contact.

“I was worried,” comes a voice close to his elbow, “that you weren’t going to make it on time.”

The glass makes a startling sound in his hand, and Damen focuses on releasing his grip, one finger at a time.

The voice belongs to a face, and Damen’s first coherent thought is that it is the prettiest face he’s had the pleasure of seeing up close in years.

It’s attached to a man that’s significantly younger than Damen, not enough to warrant apprehension, but enough for a double take.

The young man’s hair is twisted into a bun, but Damen is more focused on the artful way soft tendrils of blond frame his face.

His hair is pale enough for Damen to be reasonably certain that no bottle could replicate it, and he quells the strange urge to twirl moon-coloured strands in between two fingers.

His eyes are frigid--no better word for them, although the sharp intellect within them belies any sort of malicious intent eyes like that might normally offer.

They’re framed by long, thick lashes, which are several shades darker than his hair, verging on honeyed. 

He is not excessively short, but Damen is abnormally tall, and Damen figures that he sits at about 5”8’, just from the way his voice meets Damen’s ear.

All of this takes a few valuable seconds, a relic of cataloguing from years past, and Damen raises his head above blond to survey the room.

His eyes lock unerringly on a group of men cloistered in the back left corner of the club. The strobe lights are brighter there, and they intermittently illuminate three pairs of eyes.

The men are laughing boisterously amongst one another, and where Damen’s interloper is slim and fair, these men veer more toward Damen’s decided brawn.

The glasses give another sharp whine.

The men begin pushing forward as one, 

_ A unit, then _

And Damen makes a quick decision. He strides forward quickly, utilizing the larger steps he prefers but has to moderate for those shorter than him, and places both cups down on the bartop.

His guest is not far behind, correctly interpreting that Damen means for him to remain close. Damen turns just enough to slide one arm around his waist, and the blond head upturns at the movement.

There’s a loud roaring in Damen’s ears at the clutch of fine muscle, and Damen revises his assessment from slim to lean.

It is a small waist, trim in the extreme, and Damen’s fingers flex spasmodically.

“My name is Laurent,” he breathes, and Damen has half a second to draw him inward before the three are close enough to touch.

The one at the forefront has hair black like tar, and Damen catches the tail end of a tattoo winding around his neck. It’s coiled like the tip of a tentacle, but most of the man’s hair obscures it.

His eyes are a warm brown, incongruously friendly. 

Damen’s fingertips dig into flesh.

No one says anything, although the moment is charged, and Laurent lays his head against Damen’s chest and splays the fine bones of five fingers on Damen’s collarbone.

The group continues, and Damen’s heart is still beating unevenly when Laurent pulls back.

“Do you,” Damen begins, and then pauses awkwardly to clear his throat, “would you like to explain?”

Laurent’s neck is tipped at an uncomfortable angle in order to reach Damen’s gaze, and Damen feels something hot and heavy curl into his lower abdomen at the sight.

Laurent’s eyes dance over him in unconcealed amusement, and he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“They’ve been very persistent all night,” Laurent drawls, and Damen catches enough of the edge of consonants to definitively place him as French.

“While I wouldn’t advise finding yourself on my bad side,” Laurent says dryly, “I needed a bit of an incentive to make my disinterest clearer.”

Damen blinks down at him like a deer in headlights, and Laurent bites his lower lip in a shoddy attempt to hide his smile.

“I thought to myself,” Laurent says, “that you were the most imposing man in this club. Probably in this city,” he adds on an afterthought, and Damen’s finding it hard to breathe.

“So sorry to impose on your heterosexuality,” Laurent says, and Damen realizes that he’s still digging into the deceptively soft flesh at Laurent’s hip.

“You can’t possibly think that I don’t find you attractive,” Damen says helplessly, and Laurent’s smile widens.

“Oh, I figured,” Laurent says, “I just wanted to hear what the words sounded like when they came out of your mouth.”

Damen’s dick is a hot brand against his thigh, and he spares a disjointed thought for Nik, which dissolves against the feeling of someone so much his  _ type  _ leaning against his body.

“I’m here with a friend,” Damen says, and his head clears long enough to imagine himself in Nik’s place. He’d be terrified, the sweat beading on his upper lip.

It’s enough to throw cold water on his erection, and he straightens to his full height and gently removes his hand from Laurent’s body.

Laurent’s eyes widen very slightly as Damen exposes how tall he really is, and he can’t help the visceral pride it elicits.

“I’d like to see you again,” Damen says, and Laurent’s hand winds up his arm, settling on his traps.

“My schedule is rather full,” Laurent says, and Laurent’s fingers sweep through the hair at the base of his neck. He is still unused to having it long, but this makes it worth it.

“They looked organized,” Damen continues, even though Laurent is jostled by a body from behind, and he topples into Damen’s chest with sudden force.

Damen’s hands rise to his hips automatically in an effort to steady, and he can see clear over the crown of Laurent’s head. 

“I wouldn’t advise coming around here again,” Damen continues, “at least not without backup.”

Laurent’s mouth is pink and his cheeks are suffused with color from cheekbone to the tips of his ears, and Damen can’t risk being silent, because he’s not quite sure he’s in control.

“I’d feel good with you behind me, that’s correct,” Laurent says, and Damen feels his phone buzz against his thigh.

“I’m Damen,” Damen says belatedly, “would you like me to--”

There’s a sudden commotion from the opposite end of the club, close to where he’d left Nik some twenty-odd minutes ago.

The cacophony increases in sound and Damen’s spine tingles.

Laurent is opening his mouth when there’s a loud bang, not unlike the particular cadence of a Beretta. The sound is followed by a scream, and Damen’s world narrows.

His heartbeat swims into his ears and he spins, Laurent still sandwiched between two palms. He flings Laurent behind him and frees one hand in order to place it between the small of Laurent’s back and the lip of the bartop.

Laurent still sounds as if the air has been punched out of his chest, but he’s not moving.

Damen turns bodily so that his bulk covers Laurent entirely, and he follows the staccato rhythm of his breaths.

Security is rushing forward and Damen can see signs of a scuffle. 

He can see long, dark hair moving quickly through the crowd, but he can’t seem to place the face.

There are only three people left at the bar. One man and two women, all of medium height and average build. Damen catalogues their faces dispassionately. He can feel the heat of Laurent’s chest against his back.

Laurent remains motionless.

Someone is repeating a single word, but it’s heavily muffled, as if he’s listening to the screams of a drowning man.

His body shakes when he feels a feather light touch on his spine, and it gently curls in figure eights.

“Damen,” he hears, and it takes a beat to understand that the voice is coming from behind him. Damen feels hands around his waist, guiding as opposed to turning, and when Damen makes a 180, Laurent is still pink but his eyes have changed. 

They are heavy, warmer, somehow, and Damen doesn’t bother to quell the urge to tuck hair behind the soft shell of his ear.

Laurent flushes further and Damen’s thoughts are choppy; he considers how addictive it would be to be the routine cause of that.

“It’s cold in here now,” Laurent says, and his thumbs are moving in predictable patterns against the cut of Damen’s abdomen.

“Is it?” Damen asks, and Laurent nods, the waves of his hair falling into his eyes once more. “All those irritating bodies have left,” he says, and Damen raises his hand and wraps his palm around the warmwarm nape of Laurent’s neck.

“Mhm,” Laurent says, and he leans into the touch. “You aren’t cold at all,” he adds, and Damen’s blood comes rushing back.

Laurent is tapping on his skin in multiples of two, and he’s focusing on that, along with Laurent’s face when the roaring noise he’s been hearing resolves itself.

“Damen! Damen!” Nik’s voice is hoarse, and his palm lands on Damen’s shoulder with far less than his usual careful pressure.

Laurent’s fingers dig in imperceptibly and Damen turns around, Laurent still blanketed. 

“We need to go. We need to go. Place is gonna be cordoned off by the cops soon. We need to go.” Nik’s words are a blur, a rush of noise, and Laurent makes a disgruntled mewl from behind Damen.

Damen steps aside quickly and Laurent comes to stand beside him.

Nik looks down on Laurent with overblown eyes, and they narrow very slightly.

“That is  _ not _ a good idea, Damen,” Nik says, and his voice is tight with something burdensome. It sounds very old and very sad.

“Damen,” Laurent says, and Damen can’t help himself when he reaches down to entangle their fingers. “Would you like to take me home?”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s raining when they leave. Damen feels it on an afterthought.

Nik stays to his left and one pace behind, and Damen can’t help but to crane his neck every four steps to ensure that his best friend is in sight.

What’s more pressing, is the warm grip Laurent has on his palm.

His fingers are slender and long, and Damen squeezes once in disbelief. They make it Damen’s car mostly dry, and Nik vibrates beside him.

“I’m gonna Uber home,” he says belatedly, and Damen turns to face him, unwittingly dragging Laurent alongside. 

“I can drive you.”

Nik motions to Laurent with the subtlety of an RPG.

“You can barely walk,” Nik says, and Damen can feel his fingers tightening around Laurent’s hand.

“We can drive you,” Laurent says, the first words he’s uttered since they began making their way to the vehicle.

“I don’t mind,” Laurent says offhand. “I promise to remain virginal while you’re in the car.”

Nik looks down on Laurent with an impenetrable gaze, and nods in Damen’s direction.

The car is silent but for breathing.

-

Damen waits until Nik is behind the closed door of his apartment before pulling out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

“I can take you home, if you’d rather,” Damen says, and he’s weary.

Laurent is flexing pale hands in moonlight, and Damen follows the movement more closely than he should while driving.

Laurent glances over, and Damen really does almost crash, because his eyes are otherworldly when illuminated, crystalline glass.

“I’d much  _ rather _ see your place,” Laurent says, and his mouth is pursed like a bow.

Damen makes a sharp right, and he grins at the way Laurent laughs when he sways toward Damen, heedless of his seatbelt.

-

Damen keeps the lights off in order to conserve energy, even though paying his electric bill is the last thing he needs to be worried about.

He drops his keys in the designated dish and internally winces at the loud clack his boots make as they connect against the hardwood floor.

It is the first time he’s lived outside of the same building as Nik since they were both placed on leave, and for a moment, he finds it difficult to breathe.

Laurent is soundless behind him, but Damen is strangely unperturbed by this.

“If you only want to sleep,” Damen says as he shrugs off his jacket, “that’s perfectly fine. I’m not here to force you to do anything you’re not up for.”

Laurent’s body stiffens and then relaxes, a minute shift he wouldn’t have noticed without training.

“We can sleep too,” Laurent says, and then he’s  _ swaying  _ toward Damen with all the grace of a felinoid.

Damen feels distinctly out of his depth.

“This is my couch,” Damen says stupidly, and he’s lucky that’s the last thing he’s able to get out before Laurent grabs ahold of his t-shirt.

“Would you like me to appreciate it more?” Laurent says, pressing the words right into Damen’s mouth.

He doesn’t kiss the way Damen has come to expect from him--it’s tentative and endearingly uncertain. 

Damen’s hand comes up to close around the underside of Laurent’s bun, and he deepens the kiss himself, pressing his body so close to Laurent’s that he’s got to be fairly suffocating him.

Laurent makes a small mewl of pleasure, high and sweet, and Damen is abruptly aware of his dick as it pulses in his boxers.

“Christ,” Damen says, pulling back to get a good look at his prize.

Laurent is unsteady, and Damen keeps one hand in his hair and moves the other to stabilize his hip.

Laurent’s mouth is red, bruised like plum, and he’s flushed petal pink from his hairline to what Damen can discern of his neck.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Damen says, and Laurent flushes further before his eyes harden.

“Flattery cannot move mountains, Damen,” he says, and Damen has little time to parse that before Laurent is undoing the formerly immaculate knot of hair on his skull.

Damen can do little more than watch as it tumbles free, and it is much longer than he expects, stopping midway down his back.

It’s obscene. Damen’s eyes shutter closed, and for a moment, another image is superimposed, and he hears the high laugh of a woman and a wink of gold.

He’s back when Laurent stands on tiptoe to suck at his earlobe, and Damen’s hips jerk forward, free of his own volition.

“And you’re  _ big,”  _ Laurent says, and Damen has never heard such an innocuous word sound so filthy before.

“You like that?” Damen asks helplessly, and he can’t help but stifle a cringe at what sounds like poor lines in a porno, but Laurent’s hips give a shimmy and Damen can feel the cool porcelain of his teeth where they’re smiling against Damen’s cheek.

“I want you to get me wet enough that when you slide all--” he pauses here, reaching down a lithe hand to cup Damen’s dick, “of this inside me, you can see me gape, afterwards.”

Damen lurches into the grip and his hand fists within all that glorious hair.

He stops thinking and focuses on the wet slant of Laurent’s eyes, and the barely suppressed hitch in his breath when Damen lifts him entirely, encouraging long legs to wrap around his waist.

“Your couch,” Laurent laughs, and Damen makes an indecipherable sound in response.

“I want you here,” Damen says, breathless, even though Laurent isn’t even half the weight of some of the dismembered machinery he’s lifted in the past.

He leans down almost double to place Laurent in the center of his California King, and Laurent looks so slight there, it’s obscene.

Laurent’s body tightens again, and he scrambles toward the center of the bedspread, legs akimbo.

“Are you going to watch?” he says tightly, and Damen cocks his head at the vitriol in his tone. 

“Yes,” Damen decides, and Laurent’s hair covers half of his face. “I want to see you peel everything off. I’d like you naked, in my house, on my bed, for me.”

Laurent’s face melds toward rose again, and he undoes the buttons of his collared shirt, beginning at his neck and descending until Damen is greeted with the pale blond of a happy trail.

Laurent’s movements are jerky and Damen wants to tell him he can stop, if he likes, but Laurent places his feet flat against the blue of Damen’s comforter and levers his body upwards so that he can drag tight black jeans down his legs.

He’s not wearing anything underneath and Damen descends before the material has even hit his floor.

Laurent laughs again, a winsome sound, and Damen places one hand on the supple flesh of his inner thigh.

They both look down at the connection, and the veins in Damen’s hand are even more prominent against the light backdrop of skin.

He’s earth where Laurent is snow, and Laurent makes a  _ sound,  _ thin and needy at the sight.

“You’re beautiful,” Damen repeats. “I want to eat you alive.”

Laurent’s dick is violet and cream, swaying toward his lower abdomen in painful little jerks. Damen leans down to lick at the underside and swirl his tongue against the crown.

Laurent is leaking copiously, and Damen likes that; has never seen anyone this wet this quickly.

Laurent’s frame is a taut bow at the first contact of Damen’s mouth, and then he presses upwards so fast that Damen inadvertently takes more than half of him with one shove.

“Ah-- s-sorry,” he grits out, and Damen hums around his mouthful.

He eases one finger below Laurent’s full balls to press gently at his taint, and Laurent’s hands fly to his shoulders, fingers digging into unforgiving muscle.

“Please. Please. Stop,” Laurent begs, and Damen releases his dick with a slick pop, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

“You didn’t like it?” Damen teases, and Laurent’s eyes narrow. 

He rises to his knees and Damen is mesmerized by the play of his abdominals, they way his hair spills across his chest to cover soft nipples.

“I’d like it better if you’d bend me over and make me scream,” he says, and Damen reaches out and grabs two thick handfuls of ass and drags him flush, warmed skin against cotton.

Damen realizes he’s still dressed with sudden alarm, and he rectifies the situation with all efficiency and little grace.

Laurent’s mouth falls gently wide when Damen manages to toss his boxers, and Damen is faintly proud.

“While I am not often wrong,” Laurent says, and licks his lips, “we may need more time than allotted for you to work all of that inside me.”

Damen reaches for that ass again and Laurent comes willingly, shaking it enticingly as Damen squeezes to the possible point of pain.

He is so close that their dicks are brushing together, and Laurent cannot contain the full-body shudder the contact elicits.

Damen instigates it purposefully. He loves the responsiveness that Laurent can’t seem to quell, although he figures that voicing it will lose him his dick and this night, in that order.

He hooks his chin over Laurent’s wiry shoulder so that he can look at Laurent’s reddening ass. His fingers make a starburst, and Laurent mewls into every increase in pressure.

“That’s it,” Damen whispers, heedless. “You’re so good. You like that so much.”

Laurent’s movements falter, and Damen nudges his neck to the side with his forehead. It falls easily, and Damen quickly sets his mouth to exposed skin, suckling blood to the surface.

Laurent’s cry is the loudest it’s been and Damen smiles into the bite.

He releases one cheek to lay a soft slap on the flesh, just to watch it jiggle, and he feels Laurent’s dick tremble alarmingly against his abs.

“God,” Damen hisses. “You’re so fucking good.”

Laurent’s neck opens further, and Damen slaps his cheek again, watching as it blossoms under his hand.

“You’re amazing,” Damen says, and he pulls away in order to press Laurent supine into the mattress.

Laurent’s pupils are blown and his chest is heaving and Damen feels a possessive thrill at the sight of his mark purpling on Laurent’s neck.

“Turn over,” Damen says, and Laurent’s eyes flash, but the effort is muted.

“W-why,” he says, and Damen is gratified to see him slowed. 

“I want to spread you open,” Damen says simply, “so I can suck your hole and get you sloppy.”

Laurent grunts, and arches his lower half upward.

“It wouldn’t appear,” Laurent says, “that you’d be this good with your words.”

Damen laughs, this time, and flips Laurent over, a singular move that makes Laurent cry out with unmistakable arousal.

Damen leans over his prone body and jerks his nightstand wide with no finesse. The contents tumble but he finds the bottle of lube with little problem.

He settles it next to his thigh and has a moment of awareness of the heavy sway of his own cock, wide and thick.

He scoots closer so that he can look at Laurent’s offered hole in conjunction with his dick and the contrast makes him groan loudly.

“If you come just from looking,” Laurent says petulantly, “I’m afraid I’ll have to give you a very poor review on Yelp.”

Damen smirks this time, doubling over to catch sight of the way Laurent’s hands are fisted in the sheets, balls so full they must be aching.

Damen ghosts a breath over them just to watch Laurent shake and then wastes no time, sealing his mouth right at center.

He’s unprepared for Laurent’s response.

Laurent collapses entirely, folds like a deck of cards, and Damen slides one forearm around to hitch his hips back into position.

Damen eats like he’s starving, and in a way, he is.

He’s never tasted anything like Laurent. Laurent squirms on his tongue like a virgin, so helpless in his arousal that Damen feels privileged to see it.

He’s nasty with it, humming and dragging his beard against the soft skin of Laurent’s rim, pressing his tongue forward so that it dips just inside on every other pass.

Laurent’s breath is hitching, quiet but somehow uncontained, and Damen can tell that his knuckles are white.

Damen can see the beard burn he’s creating, and he uses the two fingers of one hand to spread Laurent’s ass wider for his mouth.

Laurent’s humping back, unashamed, and Damen hums encouragingly when he starts swiveling his hips in little half-circles.

“That’s right,” Damen draws back to say approvingly, and Laurent’s still pushing his ass toward Damen’s mouth, blind with need.

“I want you like this always,” Damen says dumbly, “so fucking pretty and pink,” he continues, and Laurent answers with a wet noise all his own.

Damen’s hands are shaking when he lowers Laurent back to the bed and slicks up two fingers.

The first dips in like butter, and Laurent’s face is flopped to the side against Damen’s pillows; he can see Laurent’s cat-eyes, slitted only just wide enough for Damen to catch sight of blue.

Laurent drags his knees back underneath his chest, but his face is holding up his body, arms useless by his side.

Damen kisses his spine, working his way up the knobs as he scissors, two fingers pumping languidly.

Laurent screws himself on the digits mindlessly, and Damen thinks that Nik was right. He’s in  _ danger. _

Laurent only blinks at fingers three and four, and Damen’s so hard he’s trembling with it. He presses his chest down the line of Laurent’s spine, and they’re connected by sweat and it should be disgusting but Damen can feel the peach of Laurent’s ass against his thighs and his hand is between them and he’s gonna bust.

He pulls out with a slurp, and Laurent’s eyes dart to his face.

“Come back,” Laurent says, and it’s so intimate Damen understands that there’s no way he can let this go.

It sinks like a stone into his chest.

He lines his dick up with hands that haven’t shaken since he lost his virginity at fourteen.

Laurent takes cock as perfectly as he does everything else, with wide eyes and no air. Damen is perversely enchanted by the way he’s pushing the very breath from Laurent’s lungs with every forward shove of dick.

It’s only Damen’s arms and Damen’s dick that’s keep them moderately upright, and Laurent is blinking tears out of his eyes, dew in long lashes.

“I don’t think,” Damen gasps as he bottoms out, “that I can stop this.”

Laurent arches his neck back plaintively and Damen kisses him, the angle awkward. Laurent sighs into the contact and Damen pulls back to prepare for his next thrust.

Laurent’s eyes widen on the drag out, and then he’s coming, spilling messily into the comforter.

Damen grinds down against his back to force his sensitive dick to collect friction from the blankets, and Laurent is soundless until the very end of his orgasm, when he lets out a small whine.

Laurent’s eyes roll backwards and Damen slams forward, almost more violently than he intended.

Laurent moves up the bed four inches and Damen doesn’t even bother trying to keep his carefully earned stamina.

He grinds in figure eights, smothering Laurent’s bruised neck with kisses, and when he comes, their fingers are interlaced once more.

-

Damen jerks awake in an instant.

It’s not like the usual, when he’s flailing across the bed and everything is burning again and Nik can’t walk and Damen can, the dull flame of his side manageable until they get out of the line of fire.

It’s quiet, but it isn’t.

Laurent’s head is nestled against his chest, but it’s thrashing, and his hands come down in fists against Damen’s sternum, once, twice, three times.

Damen holds both wrists in one hand and pushes sweat-damp blond away from Laurent’s face.

“Laurent. Sweetheart,” he whispers, hoping Laurent is too deeply asleep to hear the endearment, “wake up. Wake up.”

Laurent comes to with a fluidity that Damen recognizes in himself, and his eyes go dark with violence when he finds he cannot move.

His body goes limp, pliant, incongruent with the malevolence in his eyes, and Damen releases him instantly.

“I-I’m sorry,” Damen says, “I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Laurent is soundless. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Damen says, propping himself up on one elbow to stare at what he can make out of Laurent’s face from the slit in his curtains.

“I know about those. Nobody should have to sleep through one,” Damen says weakly, and Laurent’s body remains eerily motionless.

Laurent averts his gaze after a second, and Damen takes a calculated risk.

He draws Laurent close again, and after a momentary tension, Laurent relaxes into Damen’s chest.

“You’re in the army,” Laurent says, and it’s Damen’s turn to be taken aback.

“I am,” he says carefully, because telling Laurent specifics would be against the law.

Laurent hums in acknowledgment.

“You have a scar,” Laurent murmurs, sleepily. “My brother had one,” he continues, and if Laurent notices how stiffly Damen holds his body, he doesn’t mention it.

“They buried him with it,” he says, and Damen does not have any nightmares, because he never closes his eyes.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_ The UAV whistles overhead and Damen spares a glance for it, hand tipped over his eyes to ward off the sun. _

_ “It’s damn hot,” Nik says, and Damen eyes the pink shading underneath Nik’s hairline that indicates that Damen may have buzzed a bit too closely yesterday. _

_ “I told Jo not to dump the last of my Jack,” Nik grumbles, mostly to himself, as he leans over to scratch at an itch he can’t possibly reach through fatigues. _

_ “Where’s she going to keep it,” Damen says, conciliatory, “in between hospital beds?” _

_ Nik shrugs petulantly and Damen reaches out a hand to clasp around his neck. _

_ “That’s not--” Nik stills and Damen’s fingers tighten. The air is heavy. _

_ “Nikandros--”  _

_ The ground shakes as the first shell drops, some 21 inches long, ten feet away from them. Damen’s grip turns into a stranglehold and he drags Nik’s ear close as villagers start to wail. _

_ Damen releases his hold reluctantly even as the earth begins to groan under the onslaught.  _

_ He considers the very likely threat that the Pakistani are retaliating from recent Taliban murders on their side of the border, and he barely makes it to the barricade. _

_ Hurst is reloading, actively utilizing the bipod on his M249 while Damen accesses the closest to his person and lifts, heedless of the attached stabilizer. _

_ He’s already firing in the direction of the melee when he looks to his left. _

_ Nik’s not there. _

_ There’s a terrible moment where he thinks he’s going to be court martialed or killed, as he leaves the relative safety of the barricade and runs in the general direction of their haphazard route. _

_ There’s no discernable way to tell where the shells are going to land, and he pitches forward when the ground shakes so violently he knows he narrowly avoided death. _

_ The dust settles and he can see that Nik’s hunched behind a dilapidated house, discharging his 9mm with reckless speed. _

_ “C’mon!” Damen screams, ruining his voice, even though Nik can’t hear. _

_ Damen runs closer as Nik catches his eye and turns to face him in order to meet him halfway. _

_ The blast from the shell knocks them both to their knees and then they’re full out sprinting, Damen’s LMG handled awkwardly in both hands. _

_ The crack of a rifle in too-close proximity seems suddenly, dreadfully, slow. _

_ Nik is already reaching for him but Damen is just that bit quicker, always has been. Nik hits the earth at an angle, landing heavily on his right knee, leg twisted grotesquely.  _

_ The bullet catches Damen in the side, slicing cleanly through kevlar and for a clean second, he doesn’t feel anything. _

_ And then everything burns. _

_ Nik is emptying the last of his clip while leaning mostly on his left hip, face a barely concealed grimace of pain. _

_ Damen’s air punches out of him on a gasp, and the red is already leaking through as he bends down against any kind of medical advisement to hoist most of Nik’s weight onto his good side. _

_ Nik presses a palm to the wound, harder than Damen can honestly take but nowhere near enough to sustain him. _

_ In the end, the hospital and surrounding village is decimated, and Nik stitches him up with jerky movements long after 800 rounds have gone silent. _

_ - _

Damen doesn’t expect to see him again. The nightmares are increasing in frequency, and Damen wakes up in a cold sweat most nights, Lunesta doing nothing to dull the edge of the knife.

It’s humbling.

He’s sitting in the waiting room at Nik’s PT’s office, elbows balanced on knees, when his phone rings.

The ringtone is loud and shrill,  _ Like A Boy,  _ by Ciara. 

He’s viscerally aware of how long it’s been since anyone called him--even his own father prefers to text these days; anything preferable to facing the denigrated quality in Damen’s voice.

He can’t even remember how she’d changed the tone to begin with.

His fingers fumble as he drags the call to answer; it’s an unfamiliar number with a strange area code, and Damen picks at the loose threads on his jeans as he clears his throat.

“Hello?”

The pause is infinitesimal, and Damen is about to repeat himself when he hears a noise that sounds like a cry disguised as a laugh.

“You answered.”

It’s a statement couched as a question, and Damen sits upright so quickly that his side aches, even though that wound is long healed.

“Laurent?”

Laurent laughs, and this time Damen is certain that he’s been crying. He remembers what it feels like, the press of a nothing-weight in your throat, and the accompanying inability to discuss it.

He needs to ask how Laurent got his number, but Laurent makes a strange sound, a hiss of pain, and Damen stands so fluidly that the two other people in the room along with him, the receptionist and Ms. Grey, a school teacher with compartment syndrome, visibly reel backwards.

Damen spends a lot of time minimizing his height, but he’s halfway to the front door even as he speaks.

“Laurent, where are you? Do you need any help?”

Damen tugs on the collar of his t-shirt, pulling the fabric out of shape.

There is a heavy pause, and Damen glances around at the inner door behind him. Nik’s appointment is ending. It’s difficult for him to drive.

Damen’s fingers dig into his thigh, five pricks of pain.

“I would like to see your couch again,” Laurent says drily, “we were never properly acquainted last time.”

Damen’s breath escapes in a sharp hiss of air, and he’s abruptly pissed.

He’s not often angry, although he was consistently enraged after--when he remembered that the hospital was shelled first, and she never stood a chance.

“I need you to be serious. Later, I’m sure you’ll have ample time to insult my decor and intelligence in one breath, but, please. Are you okay?”

Laurent really does sob as soon as Damen finishes speaking, and Damen’s phone almost bends underneath the pressure he places upon it.

“I’d like to come over,” Laurent says, and Damen nods before he remembers that he needs to respond.

“Of course. Okay. I--I would come home now, if I could, but I need to drop Nik off first. I have a spare key, hidden under the potted cactus on the left of my welcome mat,” Damen says.

Laurent laughs wetly, and Damen smiles in response.

“And if you come home to see that I’ve robbed you blind?”

Damen sighs. “I never really liked that couch anyway.”

-

Nik is on painkillers during the ride home.

Damen doesn’t particularly like seeing him dosed so heavily on Oxy, in combination with the Ativan that helps him calm down at night, but the tear to his PCL had been severe and untenable.

He can walk on his own strength again, in great thanks to the intensive PT he often endures, but a session still generally wipes him out.

Damen reaches over to push Nik’s hair out of his eyes, and Nik grumbles, shoving his hand away with a grunt.

“Get off,” Nik says, eyes still closed.

“I’m going to see Laurent today,” Damen says, and Nik’s eyes open, distended like a bug’s.

“You’re a masochist now,” Nik says, “is that it?”

Damen bites his lower lip to keep his smile in check.

“You haven’t suffered enough in twenty-six years?” 

Damen’s hands flex around the steering wheel. 

“It’s not right, Damen. And it won’t be okay. You’re not much good with your heart,” Nik says, sitting up and massaging at the outside of his knee.

“Everything was going just fine with Jo, and you know it,” Damen says, and Nik’s body tightens at the sound of her name.

Damen’s not said her name in a year, not even in his own mind, and Nik hasn’t so much as mentioned her existence until Laurent, content to let Damen grieve in his own way.

“Yes,” Nik says tightly, “and then she got killed.”

Damen takes the exit, heart palpitating in his chest.

“Then you were right,” Damen says, “I couldn’t save everyone.”

-

He stands outside his own house stupidly, key poised in front of the lock.

The soft light from his living room is on, and Damen is  _ shaking,  _ sweating as if he’s just woken up to that unnatural stillness at the edge of the Durand Line.

He enters soundlessly and hangs his jacket on a hook by the door.

Laurent is seated on his couch, hair falling in soft waves around his bowed head.

He’s in one of Damen’s t-shirts, and it simultaneously swamps his body and leaves little to the imagination.

Damen’s dry throat clicks when he swallows.

“Are you alright?”

Laurent stands, tucking his hair behind one ear.

“You need a passcode for your phone,” he answers instead, and Damen pats himself down, in search for the offending device.

“Why?” Damen says, and takes in the way the hem of the shirt reaches the tops of Laurent’s thighs, milk-cream against the black fabric.

“ _ That’s  _ why,” Laurent says fondly, and Damen’s eyes cross a bit as Laurent stops just in front of him.

“Why did you leave?” Damen asks, and Laurent sighs right into his mouth.

“How often do you listen to the sound of your own voice,” Laurent says, warm and sensual, and Damen’s hand meets the juncture between thigh and ass of its own volition.

Laurent makes a little sound, and Damen’s hand spasms hotly, squeezing down on what he realizes is bare flesh.

“Laurent?” Damen says, even as his dick becomes inescapable, a heavy brand against Laurent’s hot body, slender and whipcord sharp.

“Wouldn’t you rather hear mine?” Laurent teases, “I came all the way over here so you could push those big fingers inside me again.”

Damen chokes, and Laurent’s tongue slides out, pinched between rows of even, white teeth.

“I can hold myself open for you,” Laurent says, eyes blue-wide and guileless.

It takes a heady effort to step away, and Damen’s own body is shaking, heart caught up in his throat and ready to leak out of his mouth.

“T-That’s not why you came,” Damen says, and he’s got to fumble with the back of his couch in order to brace his weight and remain upright.

Laurent’s shoulder is exposed, hair dripping down his back. He’s obscene. He’s the most blasphemous thing that Damen’s ever wanted to defile.

“I can leave,” Laurent says, and his voice is devoid of all previous warmth. It is flat, emotionless.

“I just want to know why you were crying!” Damen yells, at his wits end. “I understand that you value your privacy, and believe me, I get that. But I don’t do well when people I like are in pain--or hurting, and I don’t know what to do, or what you’ll allow me to do, and then you come here and look like  _ this-- _ ” Damen gestures, tone wild, “and I can’t  _ think.  _ I want to fuck you through my floor,” Damen ends, and Laurent looks confused and humored in tandem.

“My family is...unpleasant,” Laurent says after a moment, and Damen remembers

_ They buried my brother _

And he feels ugly inside, all warped and deformed.

“It was--just your brother, then,” Damen says carefully, and Laurent’s body remains open with visible effort.

“Auguste went on three tours,” Laurent said, and Damen watches as he twists his hands in Damen’s shirt, exposing more naked skin.

“Two in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. He came back from Iraq and couldn’t sleep, and he sold his motorcycle because every time it started, he couldn’t handle the sound.” Laurent levels his gaze at Damen, and Damen can feel his face heating.

“I was shot in Afghanistan,” Damen says, and his fingers close into fists by his side. Laurent wraps his arms around himself in response.

“When he came home from Afghanistan, he was in a body bag and he had a wound like yours,” Laurent says, and Damen steps closer.

“I’ve. I’ve never seen war,” Laurent says softly, warmly, “but I’ve seen what happens after.”

Damen gives in, curls one palm around the nape of Laurent’s neck and drags him so close that Laurent’s head is tucked well underneath his chin.

“It’s been two years to the day,” Laurent whispers, and Damen moves his hand to Laurent’s skull.

“I live with my Uncle,” Laurent says, and his voice takes on that strange quality again, untethered.

Damen hushes him, mindless.

“You’re alright,” he says, and Laurent reaches up to fist two handfuls of Damen’s shirt in his hands.

“Our parents are dead. My Uncle’s all that I have left. He’s been t-taking care of me all my life,” Laurent says, and his little body sways in Damen’s arms. 

Damen’s suddenly frightened that Laurent might pass out.

“He loves me,” Laurent says, and Damen is aware of the tight clutch he’s got on Laurent’s hair. He’s got to be in pain. 

“But he didn’t love Auguste like I did.”

Damen doesn’t know what to say, and doesn’t figure he could say anything that’s meaningful regardless.

Laurent is shaking now, and Damen’s decision is made for him.

He picks him up, and Laurent’s legs dangle like a child’s, slim and fair over the brown of Damen’s skin.

“They shelled a village in the Kunar Province. While Nik stitched me closed as best we could, my girlfriend and 42 civilians were killed in the fallout.”

Damen’s pulse clicks at his temple. He’s never said that aloud.

Laurent hums, a quiet, barely-there sound, and Damen squeezes him tightly, and he doesn’t know who it’s for.

“I can’t sleep without nightmares. I can hardly live alone. If I’m not here I’m with Nik, and as soon as I’m better, I’m going back overseas to see if someone over there wants to finish the job.” Damen regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but Laurent scrambles up, hair mussed and eyes wild.

“I will kill you myself,” Laurent says vehemently, “if you decide to make that your end.”

Damen laughs, wet and heavy. 

“You couldn’t catch me,” Damen says, and Laurent blinks back at him with pink cheeks. 

“Haven’t I?”

-

“So you’ll do it?”

Laurent tucks his foot underneath his butt in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on his phone.

“Laurent.”

Damen pokes his side and his boyfriend doesn’t laugh, but his mouth curls upward.

“The cactus needs constant watering. It’s very tempermental. My couch needs to be thrown out as soon as possible,” Damen says, “and I know you were looking forward to that.”

Laurent blinks and shoves his phone between the crease of his thigh and calf.

“And your bed?” He says, eyes brimming with false sweetness.

“I expect that you’ll be in it, often and alone,” Damen stresses, and he’s not even able to interject an iota of humor into the command.

Laurent does laugh this time, and Damen grunts in response.

“I’ll stay in your apartment while you’re on tour, love,” Laurent says carelessly, “I already promised.”

Damen likes the idea of him being there--and not living at his own house, where he leaves crying more often than not.

Damen’s never been good at conspiracies--preferring to strategize on how to root them out rather than engaging in actual discovery, but he doesn’t need to be a savant to know that something is strange.

Damen parks in silence, considering. He watches the slope of Laurent’s neck as he rests his cheek on his fist, eyes focused out the window.

Damen thinks that Nik is not often wrong.

Laurent opens the door and hops down from the cab, absorbing the shock of his landing with strong legs.

“Hang back, Damen,” Laurent commands, and Damen rounds the back of his truck with a laugh.

“Let me go in first so he thinks I came alone to pick him up,” Laurent says, and Damen looks at the baby-hairs on Laurent’s neck, curled up softly under the line of his collar.

Laurent rushes ahead, achingly young in a way he never is, and his shirt rides up as he jogs toward the clinic entrance.

In the setting sun, Damen can just make out the bruised smudge of fingers on his hip.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the rating will increase with the addition of new chapters. if you're worried that this will be potentially triggering, message me [over yonder](http://brosamigos.tumblr.com/) for spoilers.


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